


i'm still growing up (into the one you can call your love)

by blvkebellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bellarke Secret Valentines 2019, F/M, Punk Rock, bellamy in eyeliner, bsv2019, clarke is ready to fiGHT, i hope u like it :D, really i wrote this for bellamy in eyeline ngl, soulmate au where when u first touch ur soulmate tattoos appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 22:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17754413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blvkebellamy/pseuds/blvkebellamy
Summary: "'Oh shit. He is hot.' Dark, messy curls adorn his head, almost calling Clarke to run her hands through them. The opening chords play out, and a husky, smooth voice fills the room. It’s intoxicating, the way he sings, moving his hips in time with the beat.His eyes search the crowd and find hers. Dark eyeliner frames them, winged out in a sharp line. He smirks at her, winking once before looking away and belting out a note. The crowd goes wild, and he visibly soaks it in, smiling wide at their energy."Or: The punk rock/soulmate AU, where touching your soulmate for the first time makes tattoos appear.





	i'm still growing up (into the one you can call your love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_a_total_basket_case](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_a_total_basket_case/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's day! I've been wanting to write a soulmate AU for a while now and this was the perfect chance :D Also, Bellamy in eyeliner was a must. I needed this like I needed air.

Clarke huffs, pulling at her hair and resisting the urge to kick her router. It’s a Friday night, and she’s home alone with a full itinerary of watching Netflix and eating ice cream. Her show of choice is a documentary on soulmates and possible theories on how they work. Well, it would be her show of choice, if only her Wi-Fi would work.

She startles out of her silent fuming, her mind going to the buzz from her phone. Snatching it up, she sees a text from Octavia.

**main bitch:**

_hey_

_my band’s got a gig tonite at dropship_

_come or i will drag u_

**Me:**

_Is raven coming?_

**main bitch:**

_nope_

_shes got a thing_

**Me:**

_Oh ok_

_What tine?_

_*time_

**main bitch:**

_idk like an hour ish?_

_u can meet my bro nd sOuLmatE_

_thats so weird to say_

**Me:**

_Dont be gross with ur bf_

**main bitch:**

_u cant stop me_

**Me:**

_Is ur brother hot?_

**main bitch:**

_EW_

_SNDNSNDK_

_BLOCKED_

_DONT GIVE ME THESE IMAGES_

**Me:**

_I mean he’s related to u_

_He can’t be that bad_

**main bitch:**

_I refuse to say anything else._

**Me:**

_Proper punctuation? she means business_

**main bitch:**

_JUST COME OK_

**Me:**

_See you_

**main bitch:**

_toit_

Glad for the distraction, Clarke gives a final glare to her router, telling it that it hasn’t won just yet. She grabs some clothes and heads into the shower, mentally mapping out the time it will take to get ready.

An hour later, she’s pulling up at The Dropship, a small dive bar that has become her regular hangout. She heads inside and sees that it’s surprisingly packed. Octavia is setting up on the stage, a man with tattoos at her side. On further inspection, she sees lightning marks, all up and down his arm. They match the ones on Octavia, grey with yellow highlights, intricately woven in tandem. From afar, it looks chaotic. Up close, it was beautifully intricate.

 _So this is the elusive soulmate,_ Clarke thinks, making a beeline for them and calling out for Octavia.

“Hey, bitch,” Octavia grins, scooping her up into her arms.

“Hi,” Clarke says, squeezing her tight, “Who’s this?” She asks, gesturing to the person who was silently observing their interaction with mild interest. He smiles politely at her questioning and puts his hand out in greeting.

“Clarke, this is Lincoln. My soulmate,” Octavia says, her voice rising slightly at the last word. It was obvious how thrilled she is by all of this, and her enthusiasm was infectious. Not wanting to cause an awkward silence, Clarke takes Lincoln’s hand, giving it a firm shake.

“Nice to meet you, Clarke,” Lincoln says, his voice soft but strong. She eyes him up and down and _god damn,_ he’s ripped. It was a wonder how he wasn’t breaking out of his clothes. Octavia notices her stare and offers up her fist to bump, which Clarke readily accepts.

“Where’s your brother?” Clarke asks, looking around for anyone who mildly resembles Octavia.

“Probably doing some vocal warm-ups. He takes this weirdly seriously.”

“What happened to Illian?”

“Got sick, and his throat is all fucked up. Not the hot kind either, where you sound like, a million times sexier. Just congested and gross.” She sticks out her tongue and shakes her head, grimacing in fake disgust.

“Octavia?” Lincoln interrupts, lightly tapping her on the shoulder. “Set’s about to start.”

“Oh, shit – I gotta go. See you, losers!” And with that sweet sentiment, she was off, bounding towards the stage.

“So, Lincoln,” Clarke starts, “if you hurt Octavia, I will not save you.”

“Save me?”

“Let’s be real, O would rip you apart if you did anything.”

Lincoln chuckles, nodding his head. “She would, wouldn’t she? Clarke, I promise that I won’t hurt her,” he says, solemn. She looks into his eyes, searching for even a flicker of dishonesty. She doesn’t care if their soulmates; a tattoo doesn’t decide everything.

“Good.”

Before she can say anything more, the crowd comes alive with cheers and whoops, signalling that the band was about to start. They both turn to the stage, watching as the weak spotlight hits the lead singer.

 _Oh shit. He_ is _hot._ Dark, messy curls adorn his head, almost calling Clarke to run her hands through them. The opening chords play out, and a husky, smooth voice fills the room. It’s intoxicating, the way he sings, moving his hips in time with the beat.

His eyes search the crowd and find hers. Dark eyeliner frames them, winged out in a sharp line. He smirks at her, winking once before looking away and belting out a note. The crowd goes wild, and he visibly soaks it in, smiling wide at their energy.

The song eventually winds down, only to be met with thunderous applause. As they make their way off the stage, Clarke and Lincoln try to traverse the mass of bodies to find their friends.

After pushing and nearly getting into two separate fights where Lincoln had to drag Clarke away, they finally find familiar faces. “Clarke! Clarke this is my brother, Bellamy!” Octavia shouts, still bouncing from the adrenaline of performing.

“Nice to meet you, Bellamy,” Clarke says, extending her hand to shake.

“You’re Clarke? The princess?”

Clarke vaguely registers Octavia’s, “Bell, stop,” before jumping at the insult.

“Princess? What does that mean?” Clarke bites out, tilting her head to look into his stupidly perfect eyeliner.

“Mom’s a senator, went to Yale? Sounds like a princess to me.”

“Bellamy–” Octavia says, only to be cut off.

“No, no, I want to hear why he thinks he can make a snap judgement based on knowing two things.”

“If the shoe fits,” Bellamy jeers, letting the sentence linger.

“Bellamy, stop antagonising my friends or I’ll shove that shoe up your ass,” Octavia warns, throwing him a look that could kill. Bellamy stares back, and they seem to have a silent conversation, eyebrows moving rapidly to convey what they need to without words. Bellamy ends up shrugging and leaving, but not without smirking mockingly one last time at Clarke.

“Sorry about that. My brother seems to be convinced that you’ll leave me once you get bored of slumming it with us,” Octavia says, genuinely contrite.

“Where would I go? You’re basically my only gateway to everyone else,” Clarke says, still seething with anger.

“Exactly. _And,_ I am a goddamn delight.” Octavia says, Clarke humming in approval. They make small talk until Octavia had to leave, only to be caught by Murphy whispering something in her ear. Clarke watches them trade sharp jibes before shaking hands.

After catching up with the rest of her friends, Clarke goes home, still thinking about the assumptions Bellamy had. She shouldn’t care. It’s just _one_ person she probably won’t even see.

But still, the words eat at her.

 _Fuck Bellamy and his stupidly sharp jawline and even sharper eyeliner. What a dick,_ Clarke thinks, gathering her sketchbook, planning to finish up some commissions she has in her mind.

An hour later, the page is filled with stupidly sharp jawlines and even sharper eyeliner.

\--

Months later, what seemed like a one time interaction turned into weekly arguments whenever their friends convened to hang out. Turns out that Bellamy had recently moved into the area, which meant having to see him every time Clarke felt like being social.

Clarke and Bellamy, without fail, would always start arguing about something - from Star Wars theories to how pecan was pronounced - and they wouldn’t stop until physically dragged away by their friends.

Sometimes, during these arguments, Clarke will lose her train of thought, instead thinking about how much she wants to trace the dip in his chin with her tongue, or how his stupidly curly hair is just _begging_ her hands to grab it.

He’s such a dick for distracting her with his stupidly handsome face. It’s probably all part of his master plan to win more petty arguments.

Probably.

After one of their world famous disagreements, Raven pulls her aside. “Why don’t you just, I don’t know, ignore him?”

“Because that’s what a quitter would do,” Clarke says, trying to figure out insults that would devastate a nation. Or maybe just a Bellamy.

“That’s exactly what Bellamy said. I swear to god you two are made for each other,” Raven mutters, going off to complain about them to Monty. She misses Clarke’s face of fake outrage, her face flushing as she tries to play off the thought of them being together, even though no one is watching.

The thing is, Clarke is very sure that they wouldn’t work out in any romantic situation. Bellamy hates her guts and in return, she hates his. It’s a nice balance, and their dynamic works well, in the sense that their arguments haven’t devolved into fist fighting. Yet.

Clarke is so sure of this that she would bet good money on the fact that Bellamy would rather chop off his own foot than compliment her, which seemed fair given the things she said to him.

That is, until she got sick.

Clarke getting sick was a rare thing, but when it did happen, it was messy. She wakes up with her head throbbing and her mouth dry, and she inwardly groans.

Still determined to run errands, she tries to walk to the bathroom, only to give up when every step makes her want to vomit. She ends up curled in a pretzel-like shape, trying to remember how to breathe without gagging.

After what felt like an eternity on the floor, she gathers up what energy she does have to army crawl to the bathroom. Upon entering, she then proceeds to empty her stomach into the toilet for the next hour.

“This is just fucking peachy,” Clarke mutters, spitting out and rinsing her mouth.

She eventually makes it to her bed, squinting at her phone and trying her best to send cohesive texts to Octavia.

**Me:**

_Me sick_

_V soz_

_Cant do NYRHING 2DAY_

_CAPS LOCK_

_GONNA ROLL W/ IR_

**main bitch:**

_:(_

_i aksed someone to go check on u_

_*asked_

_get well soon bb_

**Me:**

_THANKS_

Clarke floats through consciousness, counting marks on the ceiling and trying not to vomit in her bed. A harsh knock resonates through her head, bringing a whole new wave of nausea. She groans, closing her eyes tight and half-yells, half-curses, hopefully loud enough to stop the knocking. It must work, because the noise stops, only to be replaced with footsteps.

She hears a vague, “Princess?” coming from the hallway.

Clarke grunts once more, and the footsteps get louder. Cracking open an eye, she sees a figure with perfectly messy hair and a trademark eyeliner look around their  eyes. “Bellamy?” She croaks, opening her other eye and peering into the darkness.

His arms are filled with various medicines, ginger ale and a hot water bottle. Seeing all this, Clarke draws the most logical conclusion.

“Huh. Fever hallucinations. That’s never happened before.” The Fake-Bellamy looks at her with a baffled look, chuckling softly before setting his things down on her bedside table.

“I’m real,” he says, arranging everything neatly.

“That’s what a Fake-Bellamy would say,” Clarke whispers, adamant.

Fake-Bellamy sighs, and reaches for Clarke’s forehead. Before he could touch her, she shrinks under the blanket, curling away from his hands. “Stop! You might get infected,” she hisses, tangling up her legs and doing her best to wriggle into the corner.

“If I’m not real, how will I get infected?” Fake-Bellamy asks, and quite logically too.

“It’s… it’s the principle of the thing. Shut up.”

“If I get sick and die, I’m haunting you.”

Slowly, Clarke peeks her eyes out, taking a good look at Fake-Bellamy. If he was a hallucination, why would he insult her? Surely she’s not that masochistic.

“You’re actually here,” she says, her words nearly lost in a fit of coughing.

Fake-Now-Turned-Real-Bellamy rolls his eyes, giving her an unimpressed look. “Your head finally click?”

“Your face finally clicked.”

“Ooh, sick burn,” he mocks, pretending to wince from the insult as he tucks in her blankets more securely around her.

“Why are you here? You hate me,” Clarke says, fiddling with a loose thread.

She watches Bellamy get up to get a bowl of water and a cloth before returning. He dips the cloth into the water, speaking as he wrings it out. “You know what else I hate? Olives, but that doesn’t mean I want to see their untimely death.”

“Fuck you. Olives are great,” Clarke shoots back absentmindedly. For once, she’s glad for her fever, because it covers up the blush creeping its way up her neck.

“Also I… I don’t actually hate you,” Bellamy says, almost shyly, “I might have been wrong. I – I was wrong. You’re kinda cool.”

It takes a second for his comment to register in her mind, but when it does, Clarke is smiling so wide, she feels her face might split.

“Bellamy Blake admitting he’s wrong _and_ complimenting me? Maybe you are a fake,” Clarke laughs, lighting up even further when Bellamy rumbled with a deep one of his own.

Bellamy smiles softly at her, taking the cloth and carefully placing it on her forehead. He brushes some hair away, fingertips gently brushing her skin. At the contact, a burning sensation occurs, followed by sharp pricks snaking along her face. Bellamy’s eyes widen, his hand pulling back, revealing ivy vines dancing around his hands, dotted with white flowers.

He looks back at Clarke and gently traces lines across her face, too sure to be distracted stroking.

The heat dies down into a cooling sensation, and Clarke finally finds her tongue.

“Are we..?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Holy shit.”

A heavy silence settles in between them as they study the other in a new light. Bellamy’s eyes gaze at her softly, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. He’s always so attractive, but right at this moment, Clarke is sure she’s never seen anything more striking.

“I got so lucky. You’re really hot,” Clarke mumbles, not even registering the words coming out of her mouth.

A laugh startles out of Bellamy, and soon he’s on the floor, shaking with an invisible force. Clarke’s laughing too – more coughing, really – and this calls Bellamy back to the present. She’s a bit annoyed at the fact that she found her soulmate while she’s sick and probably looks like shit, but when has that ever stopped her?

“You should kiss me,” Clarke says, trying to sit up, only to be gently pushed back down by Bellamy.

“Nope. I don’t want our first kiss to be covered in germs.”

“Did you know you pass eighty-million bacteria when you kiss normally? What’s a couple more?”

“A couple more is disgusting.”

“Spoil sport.”

“Princess.”

\--

Hand in hand, Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin walk into the dropship. As their feet step over the threshold, a scream stops them in their tracks.

“What the fuck? You guys are soulmates?” Octavia yells, visibly restraining herself from being any louder. Clarke nods, accepting the bone-crushing hug Octavia gives, before turning to Murphy. “Murphy, you little shit! How did you know?”

“Mother’s intuition,” he replies blandly, snatching a twenty dollar bill from Octavia and stashing it safely in his pocket.

Before Octavia can burst with questions, Raven saunters by, stopping short at Clarke’s face, which is now covered in vines and flowers. “Griffin,” she greets, “new face tats?”

In response, Bellamy wriggles his fingers, and Raven immediately puts two and two together. Her face breaks out into a huge grin, and before they know it, she’s cackling so hard she’s shaking, short breaths escaping as she clutches her stomach.

“You motherfuckers! I knew it!” Raven crows, doubled over and wiping tears from her eyes.

“I just don’t get it,” Octavia says, eyes flicking between Bellamy and Clarke, “like, obviously I’m happy for you, but how have you never touched before?”

“I’m secretly a nun and was waiting for God’s permission,” Bellamy says dryly, making Octavia roll her eyes and leave, muttering something about their set starting.

Bellamy turns back to kiss Clarke, grinning as he pulls her in She instinctively deepens it, only for him to pull away.

“Why do you taste like olives?” Bellamy asks, nose wrinkling.

“Snagged some from the bar,” Clarke says, smiling serenely back, laughing at his exaggerated groan. He buries his face in her hair, arms holding her tightly to him.

“You are a terrible person.” He says, pulling back just far enough to glare half-heartedly into Clarke’s eyes.

“You love it.”

“Yeah, I really do.”

 


End file.
